


The inexplicable power of boredom

by JonathansNightFlight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugged Sherlock, Dubious Morality, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Moriarty Is A Dick, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Power Play, Sherlock is a Brat, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8319535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonathansNightFlight/pseuds/JonathansNightFlight
Summary: It is a miserable, rainy Sunday and Sherlock is bored. There hasn't been a case in a while and he is running very low on things-that-are-fun. Luckily there is someone out there who is facing the exact same problem.
Mostly-plotless, always kinky, unapologetic Sheriarty. Brought to you by the power of Uber.





	

Sherlock received the text on a rainy Sunday afternoon. It is a common misconception that the weather in London is always rainy - inaccurate; it is often grey, windy, cold, gloomy, sometimes spitting or trickling raindrops perhaps. But steady rain, as was the case on that Sunday, is a statistical rarity. Sherlock had observed that fact sometime in early noon and filed it away, together with John’s earlier grocery run, Mrs Hudson’s calls for breakfast and lunch, both gone unanswered, all while simulating a heist above a high speed train bound from Shinagawa station to Okayama. Each simulation would get him further along but somewhere between Kyoto and Osaka his thoughts were thrown off by a buzzing sound. And then another. At the third buzz and with a twitch of discontent, Sherlock broke out of his half-submerged mental state.

 

Joints creaking from standing still to long, mentally debating whether proving his theory would justify and impromptu trip to Japan, Sherlock grabbed his phone. He glared at the flashing messaged icon on the screen in open accusation.

 

Rarer than the non-stop rain was the look of surprise at Sherlock’s face as he skimmed through the messages, once, and then once again, eyes pausing over the two letters signing off the improbable sequence of messages

 

_Sherlock, long time no see_

Read the first.

 

_Up to much? You look bored._

Continued the second.

 

_Fancy meeting for a fuck?_

_JM_

Concluded the last.

 

Sherlock blinked, registered John’s footsteps leisurely shuffling around through the walls, Mrs Hudson’s chattering, a kettle boiling and the even beat of the raindrops against his window. So he read the messages once more. A quick search of the sender’s number later and he was mostly assured that it was not the work of The Woman.

 

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock, sprawled half on the sofa and half spilling on the floor, was tapping a reply, pupils ever so slightly dilated.

 

_Why would you think I am bored?_

And send.

 

Sherlock had used those thirty seconds to scope out all possible answers, and the comebacks to the most likely ones, and the possible answers to those possible comebacks.

 

Buzz

_Sherlock, I read the news._

Buzz

_And I haven’t made any in a while._

Sherlock didn’t intend on reading the words out in Moriarty’s voice, but he can hear them being read out to him, eidetic memory and all. The familiar petulant drawl elongating his name and the image of toothy smile, punching the words out the words of the last sentence in a cocky staccato tone.

 

Ten seconds passed this time before Sherlock made his move.

_And why are you offering a fuck, now?_

Pause. Sherlock stares at the screen unblinkingly, daring the screen to flash with a new message.

 

Buzz

_Because I am bored!_

Sherlock can hear Moriarty barking out each word, eyes rolling theatrically. Too obvious.

Buzz Buzz

 _And it is raining_  

_I hate the rain_

 

Sherlock paused. These replies had not made the list. Ten seconds into his scope recalibration, another buzz.

 

_I can’t be arsed to leave the house when it is raining. Be a dear and come over so we can fuck already._

 

Sherlock blinked. Ten seconds, twenty. A minute. Sometimes the best way forwards is to change the game. Or to keep pursuing a dead line of questioning, games were complex entities in the end of the day.

 

> _Why would I want to share a fuck with you?_

Sherlock tapped the send symbol with more force than absolutely necessary. He brought a hand to his forehead and pressed down at the pressure forming above his temples and flopped fully, face down into the sofa.

 

Buzz

This time Sherlock waited a beat before raising the phone to his eyes. Unlocked the screen, read and waited some more.

_Because I am not boring._

Buzz

_And I don’t like getting out of bed in rainy days so your little friends are safe._

 

Sherlock let his phone-holding hand hang off the side of the cushion in a dramatic gesture of exasperation.

 

Buzz

_20 minutes. Be downstairs._

 

Sherlock glared at the glow of the screen until the message faded and the lock screen popped up. Ten seconds later he was bare-chested, hoping towards the bathroom one-legged while simultaneously trying to shed socks and trousers. Ten minutes later Sherlock was dripping water all over Mrs Hudson’s antique carpet, manically towel-drying messy curls.

 

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock was doing up the buttons of a burgundy shirt he fished out from a towering pile of laundry. Three minutes after that, he was passing the kitchen in a flurry of movement, looking for a misplaced scarf while mumbling a chaotic string of excuses for whomever was listening. That whomever happened to be one Mrs Hudson, who was in the middle of her Sunday dinner making routine.

 

“You have to go get supplies for a what? Wait Sherlock, does that mean you will not be eating dinner with us? Sherlock? Sherlock!” The questions came a few seconds too late, since the door of 221b Baker Street was already slamming shut behind Sherlock. The briefest of pauses - now what? Sherlock squeezed his eyes, all the possible scenarios lighting up pathways inside his brain, until he could feel each train of thought slamming against his eyelids. A buzz.

 

_Madame Tussauds_

 

Sherlock blinked and the words burned behind his eyes, rapidly morphing into a map of London. No. This is a route he knew like the palm of his hand, the attraction located less than five minutes away. Down to Marylebone Road and then left - he was gliding smoothly in and out of scattered tourists groups. Everyone carrying umbrellas or half-buried in clunky raincoats.

 

Sherlock walked in the middle of the crowd of people, moving, still, silent and chattering in the entrance of the wax-work museum. Another brief second and a silver Toyota Yaris is suddenly screeched to a halt straight in front of Madame Tussauds, half riding the curb, inches from the nearest passer-by.

 

Buzz buzz.

_Get in already!_

 

The Yaris’ window lowered. “Jim?” comes the question a worn-looking, jittery man in the driver’s seat. The “Oi mate!” exclamations from the jostled crowd, hot on his heels, Sherlock opened the Uber’s door. “Sure” he replied, slamming the car’s door a tidbit harder than absolutely necessary. .

 

The ride went on for twenty-four long minutes, although Sherlock was certain it would have been closer to twenty if not for the ill-timed convoy of buses they encountered in front of Camden Road station. His driver, a balding man in his mid-thirties, who had recently arrived to London from someplace warmer and his skin was just beginning to show the grey quality of vitamin D deficiency, did not make any attempts at small-talk. Which either made him a good people-reader or Moriarty’s hostage. Sherlock decided the former was more likely.

 

The Uber had headed North through Camden and Holloway, briefly making Sherlock wonder if they were heading towards the A10 and all the way out of London until they left the main road for the smaller streets of a decidedly residential area. The Yaris had rolled into a gentler stop this time, in front of a pleasant semi-detached house, a row of minuscule bushes beautifying the yard. It was the kind of front-yard that would have earned the home-owner Holloway 2013 Best Garden award, but would have been barely adequate north of Leicester. Sherlock stepped over a puddle, or maybe into a puddle but his shoes were so thoroughly soaked it barely made a difference. Walking through the perfectly lovely row of bushes, he stood in front of the heavy set of number 73, street unknown.

 

Sherlock’s phone buzzed once more in his pocket, and he pushed the door open with much less caution that the situation required. Unsurprisingly the door opened, and Sherlock was standing in a tastefully refurbished hallway, facing a set of stairs. The decoration was minimalistic and expensive, but the layout was not unlike the Baker Street house he had just left. There was movement coming from the living room and before Sherlock had the chance to say something clever, a mountain of an Eastern European man in a black suit appeared in the doorway.

 

Sherlock had a few seconds to react as the man approached, but instead he spent them scowling at the feeling of dissapointment that had settled in the pit of his stomach. The phone buzzed again. His fingers twitched.

 

“Upstairs” grunted the man, who was wearing the gruffness of a body-guard like second skin. Sherlock didn’t move for a few more heartbeats, buzz, buzz, and the hulking suit jerked a thumb towards the stairs.

 

“Oh you meant these stairs” Sherlock muttered and went, ostensibly, upstairs.

 

There were a few doors he could make as he reached the top, but only one had a knife sharp strip of light spilling from under the crack. Sherlock reached for the handle, pulled and instead of a half-expected bullet between his eyes, there was Moriarty himself.

 

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock… You are _late_ ”


End file.
